


Margaritaville

by icannotevenhhh



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Awkward Conversations, Dialogue Heavy, Ice Cream, Karaoke, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Songfic, copious amounts of jimmy buffet, not really but kinda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:08:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23858851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icannotevenhhh/pseuds/icannotevenhhh
Summary: I swallow the lump building in my windpipe, unfurling myself until my knees pop. (Ow.) “I can’t let my mom see me like this.”“We could ditch.” Connor sips my punch. “Go out for ice cream or something.” I’m so taken aback that I bark a laugh, but his face is completely serious. My laugh fades into a cough.“Ice cream sounds...ice cream sounds pretty nice, uh, actually. Yeah.”Connor cracks a grin, rising to his feet and offering me a hand. His nails are painted with chipped black. “Let’s go get some ice cream, then. We can sneak out my window. Just gimme a sec before we go, I kinda really have to pee.”
Relationships: Evan Hansen & Connor Murphy, Evan Hansen/Connor Murphy
Comments: 8
Kudos: 49





	Margaritaville

I don’t like parties.

Which is kind of obvious, given how bad my anxiety is. Being social isn’t my thing, and that’s not to say I’m the wallflower type, either. The word wallflower is far too...sweet. Too pretty. When I’m in public, it’s like I’m a were-meltdown on a full moon—my hands get clammy and I freeze up and I say things I don’t mean and stutter more than I speak. (I like to think I’m more of a wall-cactus.)

I had pretended not to notice my mom’s face light up when I mentioned the invitation. I wasn’t sure yet if I would show up, the thought alone made my gut churn. It was difficult enough to exist without my dinner threatening to throw itself out of my mouth, so I shoved the notion back into the far reaches of my brain. But before I voiced my doubts, Mom cut me off.

“Dat’sh wobnerful!” she said through a mouthful of Chinese, forgetting her manners in her excitement. She swallowed the thick ball of half-chewed chicken, setting her chopsticks down and wiping her mouth. “What kind of party is it?”

I looked down at my food, picking at it idly. My stomach had shriveled up. Broccoli and beef tumbled over mounds of white rice like a miniature avalanche, leaving a trail of saucy devastation in its wake. “It’s, um. Zoe Murphy’s party.”

“Who’s Zoe Murphy? Do I know her?” Mom was buzzing with unasked questions. Then she gasped, a lightbulb firing over her head. “Do you _like_ her?”

“Mom!”

She snickered and balled up her napkin, tossing it into the empty takeout bag like a basketball. The plastic crinkled into itself. To me, its ‘Thank you!’ customer service smiley face was more like a cringe. “Okay, okay, I’ll stop. But seriously, who’s this Zoe?”

“She’s…” I struggled for words, spearing a hunk of broccoli with a chopstick. Zoe and I only talked casually, and half the time I got the feeling it was out of circumstance. (Or pity, which was just as understandable.) I had used to like her, but the feelings wore off over time. (Awkward.) “She’s this junior I know. The party’s for her birthday and stuff. She just turned seventeen.”

“So...you got invited to a birthday party?”

“...Yeah.” I glanced up for a moment. (I knew it was my mom, but I didn’t want to be rude. I’m not rude.) (Or, at least, I try not to be.) The sparkle in her eye swelled, and suddenly my dinner was the most interesting thing in the world. (Like I mentioned, I wasn’t all that hungry, but it was better than feeling pathetic.) She gushed about how I hadn’t been to a birthday party since I was thirteen, about Jared’s bar mitzvah, about mine. I shoveled piles of takeout into my mouth to avoid answering her questions, and soon enough, I realized the mistake of telling her:

If I didn’t go to the party, I’d let her down. I hated letting my mom down. She was trying so hard, asking me every day if I was okay, driving me to every therapy session without complaint. And she was stuck with me. Evan Hansen, professional screwup.

Every time I shoot down an idea or cancel an invitation, I see her in the back of my mind: a defeated, desperate look in her eyes, loose wisps of hair in her face, her arms folded over wrinkled scrubs. I was stressing her to the breaking point. _Can’t you just try?_ head-mom would say, bringing a hand to my cheek. _I pay for your meds and school and food. Can’t you_ try _to be a good son?_ She’s never _really_ said that to me, but it’s not like the truth has ever done anything to blot out my thoughts.

So I said I would go.

Which is how I found myself here: Zoe Murphy’s upstairs bathroom, curled up against the sink and trying to keep my grip on reality.

Music is thudding through the paper-thin walls, jarringly out of time with my heart. It’s repetitive and electronic, like something specifically written to be played at a club. A surge of drunken cheers accompanies the melody, though I can’t quite make out what they’re saying. (What is this song?) (I’ve never heard it before, am I that out of touch?) (Is this what I’m supposed to like?) 

I can barely think over the noise. 

My eyes flick about, focusing on everything and nothing—the grout on the floor, the cream-colored ceiling, the half-drained solo cup sitting by my foot. It's the kind of cup you’d see in a cheesy teen flick, where the actors look twenty-five and nobody ever goes to class. The punch inside shudders to the music’s hypnotic pulse and the smell of it is making me seasick. At least three cupfuls had made the journey into my bloodstream before I realized it was spiked. Suffice to say, the fruit-punch–alcohol combo is doing nothing to help my pounding head.

Somewhere downstairs was Jared, doggy-paddling through the churning sea of bodies. We’d come together (his car), but I had ended up alone the second we stepped inside. Which didn’t bode well, of course—I was pretty much shipwrecked, a castaway on Bathroom Island.

As I’m wrestling with my thoughts, the doorknob rattles. (I can’t move.) The room begins to swim. (I can’t move.) My entire body is locked up, and I’m at the mercy of whoever steps inside. (I can’t FUCKING move.)

I sit there, frozen and useless, as the door swings open to reveal Connor Murphy.

He stares down at me like he just caught a burglar climbing through his window. (A sweaty, slimy, slightly-drunk burglar. One who’s stupid enough to neck back whatever’s handed to him...specifically a cup of punch-flavored tequila.)

I don’t look like a burglar, though; I look more like a camp counselor hiding from a troupe of rowdy kids. ( _Junior Park Ranger,_ reads my shirt. I think I accidentally spilled some punch on it earlier, because its happy little tree is doused in red.) 

“Uh...hi?” Connor’s stare trails down to my feet and back again like he’s turning me over in his head. He’s dressed comfortably, a world away from his usual grunge hobo schtick. Ratty flannel pajamas and a frayed t-shirt hang loose off his frame, giving him the appearance of a half-melted candlestick. Draped over his shoulders is his hair, slightly greasy and mussed like hell, as though he’d just woken up from a century-long nap.

Music floods in through the open doorway, beating at my skull like an ice pick. I must be wincing, because Connor shuts the door with a click. “Party too loud?” 

He takes a tentative step towards me, relaxes, and flops down onto the floor. Wiping the sleep from his eyes, his mouth stretches wide open in a yawn. “Wild night, right?”

By this point, I’ve regained enough control to manage a brief nod.

“Yeah—” Connor smiles dryly, rolling his head around to pop his neck— “I figured. I couldn’t sleep over this noise if I tried.” He grabs my cup, lifting it to his nose before I could protest. He suddenly jerks his head away, wincing. (I pretend not to notice myself flinch.) “Oh, yikes. Spiked. I didn’t take you for much of a drinker, Hansen.” 

“You know my name?” (It’s hypocritical that I’m surprised he knows me. I mean, I know him.) (Then again, everyone knows him.) (Knows how to avoid him, I mean. Why’s he being so nice?)

Connor shrugs, his awkward nonchalance soothing my thoughts. “We have the same English class.”

Oh.

“Oh.” The more I think about it, the more I remember. He sits near the back, in a desk by the corner. Most days he’s so quiet I hardly notice him. (Yikes.) (Two strikes for Evan ‘stupid fucking idiot’ Hansen. One more and he’s outta here, back to the bleachers of woe and shame.)

“Yeah.” Connor sets the cup back down, his eyes refusing to meet mine. Instead, they dart about the room—grout, ceiling, cup. Oddly enough, he reminds me a little of myself. Which is bad, because neither of us have the gall to speak up.

The silence between us is fucking suffocating. Connor coughs.

(That’s because he’s waiting for you to say something.)

“Um. You’re right. I’m not.” (Wow, Evan, how eloquent.) (You might as well run down the hall and take a dive through a window.)

Connor's gaze draws itself back to my face. “Not what?”

“Not a drinker. I mean, I’m not not not a drinker. Er, I don’t drink. You were right about that.”

Connor contemplates me with interest, his head cocked to the left. I squirm—it feels like being examined under a microscope. Is that all I am to him? An experiment? A ticking time bomb that he wants to watch go off? 

Downstairs, the song changes. It sounds identical to the first one, so I almost don’t notice it. How many songs have we gone through staring at each other like goonballs?

“If you don’t drink, why are you here?”

I swallow. “Er, I um...Zoe invited me? I thought it would be rude not to show, so...uh, yeah…” I clear my throat. “I’m here. Uh, I guess.” 

Connor nods, a lock of hair falling into his face. “...Cool.”

“Why aren’t _you_ at the party?” I blurt. “If you don’t mind answering, I mean.”

Connor shrugs, beginning to fidget with the strings of his pajamas. “Zoe didn’t want me to be, but I didn’t want to leave, sooo…” He shrugs again. Calm, collected coolness is rolling off him in waves, doing wonders to soothe my jitters. “We made a deal. Upstairs is off-limits for partiers, and downstairs I don’t exist. I suspect you didn’t take the hint at the baby gate.”

My face grows hot with embarrassment. I had been so desperate for some privacy that I barely registered climbing it, even after I banged my shin and fell face-first onto the staircase. (Oh, so that’s when I spilled my punch.) “...Sorry.”

“You’re good, don’t worry. Did you drive here, or do you have a ride?”

Now it’s my turn to be surprised. (He still looks pretty surprised by me. I mean, I did kind of invade his bathroom.)

“Uh, I don’t know. He might’ve actually, uh...left already.”

“If you want, I could take you home?”

My thoughts halt in their place.

Connor Murphy just offered me a ride home.

“You would do that for me?”

“Yeah, I uh.” Connor’s fingers drop his pajama strings, traveling up to mess with a loose thread on the hem of his shirt instead. “I’ve been there before. I get it.”

I swallow the lump building in my windpipe, unfurling myself until my knees pop. (Ow.) “I can’t let my mom see me like this.”

“We could ditch.” Connor sips my punch. “Go out for ice cream or something.” I’m so taken aback that I bark a laugh, but his face is completely serious. My laugh fades into a cough.

“Ice cream sounds...ice cream sounds pretty nice, uh, actually. Yeah.” 

Connor cracks a grin, rising to his feet and offering me a hand. His nails are painted with chipped black. “Let’s go get some ice cream, then. We can sneak out my window. Just gimme a sec before we go, I kinda really have to pee.”

* * *

_Connor’s car is kinda shitty but kinda not,_ is playing on loop in my head as street lights flash past us. His knuckles are blanched as he grips the wheel, staring silently at the road ahead. Our somewhat comfortable conversation from before is dry now, with nothing but the hum of the engine to keep us company. 

Connor looks different in the rising and falling tides of light. He changed into black jeans and threw on a dark hoodie, left unzipped despite his shirt’s pockmarked tears. His hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail at the nape of his neck, and I can see a slightly faded stick-n-poke tattoo peeking out from behind his ear. It’s a little pine tree made of dark, curved lines.

He opens his mouth to say something, his teeth clacking together as it shuts again. I want to say something, but I can’t find the right words. _Hey, Connor, who I totally forgot was in my English class and probably offended somehow by breathing wrong, thanks for saving my ass?_ ...I mean, it’s better than _I hope you aren’t a serial killer._

I cough into my fist, turning to watch the world pass by through the window. A few drunk college students stumble along the sidewalk, arms linked as they giggle and wobble like baby deer on ice. Through an open bar door, the sound of smooth bass guitar reaches my ear, and I steal a glimpse of a live band playing to a smattering of people. A few minutes later, a woman with a bouncing brown ponytail and a reflector vest jogs past, an iPod strapped to her hip like the world’s most anticlimactic gunslinger.

I’m so drunk and melancholy that I don’t even flinch when Connor reaches by me to turn on the radio.

_“—y Cash with ‘One Piece at a Time,’ up next, Jimmy Buffet’s seventies classic, ‘Margaritaville.’”_

The car is suddenly filled with island woodwinds and acoustic guitar, and soon a low voice begins to sing.

_”Nibblin' on sponge cake / watchin' the sun bake / all of those tourists covered with oil-”_

Connor taps his fingers against the wheel to the beat of the music, and I steal a glance in his direction. His lips are moving ever so slightly, mouthing the lyrics along to the music.

I know the lyrics, too. My mom listens to this kind of thing in the car when she’s in a bittersweet mood, and without thinking first, my voice joins in on the chorus.

“Wastin’ away again in Margaritaville!” I bounce a little in my seat, bobbing to the gentle xylophone (is it xylophone? Whatever, I don’t care) that accompanies the melody. “Searchin’ for my-y lost shaker of salt!”

I’m crackly and off-key, but I’m too drunk to care. (I see now why people drown their problems in alcohol. This entire feeling, being floaty and hazy and half-there, is sorta nice.) Connor breaks into a little smile, and he sings louder with me.

“Some people claim that there’s a wooooo-man to blame! BUT I KNOW!” He laughs, and both of us scream the final words:

“IT’S NOBODY’S FAULT!”

* * *

Fluorescent lights buzz above us as Connor and I step into A-La-Mode, a bell dingling over the door to fanfare our arrival. The place is quaint, if a bit shabby, with little round tables and wooden chairs sitting atop a checked tile floor. The walls are painted pale blue, decorated with amateurish murals of pastel ice cream cones. Stretching from the ground to the ceiling are windows that make up the entire storefront, and in the daytime, I imagine they’d bathe the place in natural light. (It’s kinda cold in here.)

Behind the counter is a lone, tired-eyed employee tapping away at his phone. He’s uniformless, with a simple name tag pinned to a light purple t-shirt. _James_ it reads, droopily scrawled and hardly legible. To his left is a brightly-lit display freezer drooling gaseous frost, twin rows of ice cream buckets standing at attention behind a screen of glass. Each flavor has a tag scotch-taped to the window, written in much better sharpie-on-copy-paper script. _Hazelnut. Chocolate/Strawberry Marble. Mint Chip. Praline Pecan._

James-the-employee yawns, surveying us with barely a glance. After a moment of slothlike hesitance, he uses a monumental amount of effort to set down his phone. “Welcome to A-La-Mode. What can I get you?”

Connor somehow looks even less enthused than the worker, replying in turn as though his order’s burned into his skull. “Two scoops of peanut butter in a chocolate-dipped bowl. Hot fudge on top.”

(He’s awfully brief. A please would have been nice.)

“Please,” Connor quickly adds, sparing a look at me. (Shit. Did I say that out loud?)

Before I can let myself freak out about that, I’m up to bat. The employee turns to me without a word, like I wasn’t worth his breath.

“Uhm...Can I get, uh...” I splutter uselessly, scanning over the flavors posted on the display glass. My eyesight’s blurry with traces of alcohol, and I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. (What do I want? I’ve never been here. Should I play it safe with vanilla? What about strawberry? I haven’t been out for ice cream in ages.) (Do they offer samples?)

Connor saves me before I spiral any further.

“He wants pistachio in a plain waffle bowl. One scoop, extra napkins”

I want to offer Connor my thanks through a sort of mental diffusion— _thank you, oh my god, thank you, thank you_ —but he doesn’t even spare me a look, fishing his wallet from his pocket while the employee grabs a scooper and sets to work. The ice cream plops down into the waffle bowls with a singular pornographic splat. Then another, and another. He hands me my bowl over the glass as Connor slaps a bill onto the counter. Change trades hands, and finally, both Connor and I have our ice cream.

“Thanks for coming to A-La-Mode. Have a nice night,” James drones. He and Connor seem to be having a contest in who could give the least fucks.

“Yeah, sure. You too,” Connor answers, nudging me as he turns to leave. His gaze—or, rather, lack of one—shines with something I’ve never seen before. Nostalgia? Vulnerability?

Whatever it is, it’s enough to string me along like a puppet, so I follow him outside. His sneakers pad gently against the concrete as he rounds the shop’s corner, flopping down onto a bench that looks like the taxpayer equivalent of a kicked puppy. It creaks under his weight. “So, Hansen,” he begins, taking his spoon and stabbing it through the ice cream’s heart. He kicks his sneakers up onto the bench, blocking my way and leaving me stranded on my feet. “Why’d you say yes?”

“...Excuse me?”

Connor readjusts his position, sniffing nonchalantly as he pulls off the napkin stuck to his bowl and stuffs it into his pocket. “Why’d you agree to come with me?”

“Why’d you ask?”

Connor looks up at me, scoffs, and looks back down. His brows furrow, and the blankness on his face turns far away. Dreamy. “Like I said, I get it. I’ve been left alone at parties before, I’ve been ditched before. Being drunk and alone isn’t fun, so...I thought ice cream was a better alternative.”

I bob my head in understanding, and Connor shoots me one last glance before shifting and planting his feet on the ground.

“How’d you know what to get me?”

Connor prods at his ice cream, ignoring his spoon and breaking off a piece of the bowl to use as a shovel. “I dibn’t, butchoo seem like a pistachio kinda guy.”

I ease onto the bench beside him, looking down at my ice cream before spooning some into my mouth. It’s creamy and thick, with tiny bits of pistachio scattered throughout. “Wow. This is...This is really good.”

“I know! My parents used to take me and Zoe here all the time,” Connor says, a wistful smile gracing his features. He breaks more waffle off to use as a scoop, shoving half of the entire bowl into his mouth at once. “They’b got homemade fubge.”

I snort. “Careful, the birds’ll get fat off of how many crumbs you’re spitting.”

His attempt to tell me to shut it results in a spray of peanutty goop, dripping down the front of his hoodie and nearly hitting me in the face. I shield myself as I laugh (the alcohol must be getting to me), covering my mouth to hide my own half-chewed sludge. 

“...Hey, Connor?”

“Myeah?”

I swallow, watching as my ice cream melts into its bowl’s waffling. “...Thanks for doing this. Uh, for driving me and paying, and...yeah. Thank you.”

Connor nudges my side, grinning. There’s a bit of waffle bowl stuck in his teeth. “Mo plobwem.”

I chortle, my face heating up as I hear myself snort. 

Then I hear a text alert.

_**(2:15) Jared:** Dude where are you???_

Connor makes an effort to gulp down his ice cream, wiping his mouth with his sleeve and leaning over to peer at my phone. “Who is it?”

“Jared.” I hit the lock button and the screen goes dark. “I should probably text him back.” 

“Nah, fuck him. Jared’s a dick.”

I grin at the comment, giving Connor a light shove. (Maybe it’s the alcohol talking, but he seems proud he can get me to smile.) (Am I even that drunk anymore?) “Yeah, but he was kinda my, uh. My ride. Guess I should have told him where we were going.”

“Again, fuck him.”

I open my mouth to tell him _okay, maybe sometimes, but he’s still my only friend_ (wow, pathetic) when Connor shoves a finger to my lips, his gaze quirking up as he listens for something. In time, I hear it too: guitar, woodwinds, xylophone (fuck what anybody else says, it’s a xylophone) coming from inside A-La-Mode.

This time, Connor doesn’t need my lead to begin belting the words to the song.

“But there’s BOOZE IN THE BLENDER!”

I join in. “AND SOON IT WILL RENDER!”

“THAT FROZEN CONCOCTION THAT HELPS ME HANG ON!”

As I take a breath to begin the chorus, my fun is spoiled by another alert.

_**(2:18) Jared:** Im about to head out, if you dont answer im calling your mom_

This time, I begrudgingly reply.

_**(2:18) Evan:** It’s okay, I left already_  
_**(2:18) Evan:** I’m nearly home_  
_**(2:18) Evan:** Please don’t call Mom_

Connor frowns from over my shoulder, snooping once more. “Do you need me to take you home?”

I nod. “...I should, uh. I should probably be going soon.”

A huff breezes past my cheek as Connor pulls away, beginning to stand. Something possesses me to hold out a hand. He stops mid-motion, glancing my way quizzically. 

“Soon doesn’t mean...now?”

Connor breaks into a smile. “Cool.” He settles back down, kicking a foot up over his knee and shoveling more ice cream into his mouth. “So you’re alright with staying out with me?”

Something in Connor’s face makes my heart twist. It doesn’t take me long for me to make up my mind. (Hell, it was already made.)

“As long as you don’t spike my ice cream, I could sit here all night.”

* * *

Hansen’s dead asleep in the passenger seat as I drive him home. The sky has lightened slightly from pitch black to murky navy, but not even the threat of the sun rising could make me go any faster. I’ve got a Johnny Cash CD on, Hansen’s using my hoodie as a blanket, and I feel...calm. Glad, even, that I had found him in my bathroom when I did, though it may have been a bit too late to save him from mauling his liver.

Still.

Orange light breaks over the horizon, dyeing the clouds pink as I turn into Hansen’s driveway. The engine continues to buzz, the car’s heater blowing full blast as we (or, well, _I_ ) sit there and take in the view. Er, views.

Hansen’s a view in and of himself.

Drool is pooling at the corner of his mouth, and his cheek is squished up against his shoulder. His chest rises and falls peacefully, and his hair is all sorts of fucked up. And if I don’t wake him up, he won’t have to go. I know that sounds fucking delusional, but it’s true—for now, at least. I put the car in park, and the engine cuts to silence, replaced by Hansen’s hardly-audible snoring.

It always ends like this.

With me and someone, anyone, having an okay time, and then I get completely blown off the day after and forevermore. Nobody wants to be seen with me. Hell, I wouldn’t want to be seen with myself. But...for some reason, I keep reaching out. And hell, Hansen's as good a person as any to be subject to my pathetic desperation.

So I bite my tongue, hold my breath, and quickly scrawl my number into his palm.

Evan grunts in his sleep, tugging his hand back into his chest and snuggling into my hoodie. I take a moment to sit there and watch him when there’s a soft but insistent rapping at my window. I turn to see a woman standing in the driveway, bearing a striking resemblance to the boy next to me: the same eyes, the same nose, the same worried brow. I turn down the music and roll down the window.

“Excuse me, are you Connor? Is Evan with you? He said he was out with you last night.” 

I lean out of the way for her to see him, and the tenseness in her shoulders slips away. “You must be Mrs. Hansen?”

She smiles, but it’s framed with a twinge of pain. “Ms. Hansen, no r. But yeah, I’m Evan’s mom. You can call me Ms. Heidi if you want.”

“Ms. Heidi...Right.” I clear my throat, turning to Hansen and shaking him awake. He mutters something about five more minutes, and I shake him again. “Come on, Hansen. We’re at your house, it’s your stop.”

Hansen sits up with a yawn, frowning at what must be a massive headache. To my left, Heidi chuckles gently. “I oughta make up the couch for him, I doubt he’ll make it all the way to bed. Thanks for getting him home, Connor.”

“No problem.” 

Heidi turns and heads inside, and Hansen pops his neck. “...Ow.”

“You alright? You’re not gonna eat shit trying to make it to the door, are you?”

Hansen snorts, shaking his head. He still looks pretty out of it. “No way.” Then, my heart stops—he leans over, pressing a drowsy kiss to my cheek. “Thanks for the ice cream.”

He still has my hoodie wrapped around his shoulders as he scurries inside.

It suits him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to James for suggesting the overall backbone of this story! I can't plot to save my life, so his help ruled! 
> 
> If there are any grammar mistakes, let me know and I'll fix them when I can! Thanks!


End file.
